


Falling Ashes

by DragonheadSkilax



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gorge, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Medical Examination, References to Illness, Slow Burn, leeches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonheadSkilax/pseuds/DragonheadSkilax
Summary: A return from the chimney sweep with a worrying illness gives the physician Dr. Higgsbury a newfound heart throb. Both bond over their personal similarities, and like a scalpel following an incision they open up to peel back at their lives.----Ch. I - Wes worries about sweeper's black lungCh. II - Wilson shows a leechCh. III - Webber needs a leechCh. IV - Willow dallying into town





	1. Carcinogens Caress

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a good amount of knowledge on history and topics to be depicted. I even own leeches myself.

There were four clocks in the Higgsbury cottage that were to be kept in sync. Keeping them winded at the right hours every day on the dot, If one were to slow in progress that could start the chain reaction of time lagging behind. Lost time can not be afforded by Dr. P Higgsbury whose job is tied to the importance of time. It is what dictates life and death under the doctors hands. When to conduct a surgical removal of an organ, or count the amount of days a patient has. We all have the minutes we value most in our years.

 

A cold front took a grip on the city, for the last three weeks snow slowly drifted down from the skies making thin fresh sheets of white every morning. These fresh sheets were quickly blotted with tracks under the hooves of horses and foot traffic. Doctor Wilson Higgsbury typically spends his humble abode until he receives a house call or tend to his various instruments which require proper maintenance. Although on this particular day Wilson must attend to other matters which he finds unappealing but necessary. Keeping in schedule of household upkeep it was time for a sweeping within the chimney of the cottage. The snowy days made it used more often but alas that brings more need for checkups.

 

In one of Wilson’s cabinets is an address book containing numbers for all sorts of contacts. _Woodie’s Fish and Traps_ for obtaining any leeches if needed as the worm-like creatures only live for a year or so. A contact for the blacksmith shop is also in the address book, Wilson has a habit of doing his own carpentry for any wobbly chair legs. Wilson flipped through the address book a few more times and found what he was looking for.

 

A small business card with slightly yellowed paper and dark fingerprints. Wilson felt his heart beat jump up like walking over two steps instead one on a stairway. He thought back to day the sweeper came to his home, his clothes were spotted with ash and hairs going in all directions. Wilson directed him to step only on the paper lining and to not touch anything, but he was instantly captivated by this young man. Maybe it was the way he swayed when stopping in place or how his eyes met Wilson's. He gave no worded response but instead gave gestures and a raise of a brow upon his soft face. The doctor expected no conversation to take place in the first place. He didn't have time to or patience to interact long with a low level workers, and yet he did.

 

_Ding Dong!_

Before Wilson could continue on this daydream the doorbell rang from the front and echoed down the hallway. He closed the address book and glanced at a mirror. Straightening up his color, was that a flush in is cheeks? The doorbell rang again.

_Ding Dong!_

 

Wilson started to bring himself down to earth and furled his brow. Who could be at the door on a sunday morning. He grabbed the cold doorknob with his clammy haired hand and opens the door. A blow of sharp freezing air slipped through letting in specks of snow. What was standing before him made his heart skip again.

 

That soot muddled fellow that was in his mind is now standing right at his doorstep. He wore a tweed cap and a grey plaid scarf fully wounded around his neck. His hair was still matted but slightly less from the puff balls Wilson remembered. Without the soot on his face his skin seemed to glow a warm aura.

 

He handed him a paper. Wilson blinked a few times to regain his thoughts. Taking the paper slowly he read a few lines on it.

 

Clearing his throat he finally responded. “A union? Ah, a campaign…”

 

The flyer called for the abolished use of young children for chimney sweeping services. The campaign was led by Lord Shaftesbury. Wilson raised his eyes reading the name. “Oh I've heard of the work of Mr. Shaftesbury, a philanthropist. The effects of carcinogens are one of my most frequent house calls. That's why I…”

 

He stopped himself from continuing as he looked back at the eyes of the man standing by the door, without saying a word.

 

“Oh uhh I'll do my part with this movement,” Wilson cleared his throat again, “I remember you have cleaned my chimney once before, yes I was just thinking of you.” He squinted his eyes in regret of saying that sentence. Yet he kept talking.

 

“It's very cold right now, would you mind i-if I could make you a cup of tea?” Wilson internally clenched at the stutter than came out of him. Usually he kept to himself, the only time he shared anything for a guest is if he wanted to coax the family member of a deceased patient but only to not pay for any consultation. This stranger who he should've ignore was a point of interest to Mr. Higgsbury.

 

The young man without a hesitation nodded his head. Wilson stepped away to allow him through as he left leaving wet footprints onto the carpeted flooring.

 

“You can sit over there while I...get you a cup”, Wilson grinned and went to his kitchen, his heart fluttered. How long could he keep him here for? Does he have places to go? Is he free for the day--

 

A chair leg squeaked as his foot bumped into it. Wilson brushed back his streaked hair and wanted to clear his head of such thoughts. He was merely showing an act of kindness, the man was shivering. With the look in his eyes he could also be spared a bite too perhaps. What would he come to make of this day…

He prepared Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches on a silver platter. Proud of this assembly of goodies he hurried back out to give the treat to the man.

 

“I've added some extra bits, if you're feeling peckish”, Wilson grinned wider, his underbite made his smiles silly and freckled cheeks gotten to a blush. Placing the tray in the table he sat beside the quiet man on the dense sofa. He watched him take the cup and take the first swallow of the hot liquid. His lips curled into the edge of the cup to take quick sips. Wilson put two fingers in his waistcoat and glanced down.

 

“Uh… _Mr. Weston_. I've been meaning to ask if you…”, his thoughts scrambled, as if his mind encountered a mental roadblock. He restarted his sentence, “I've been wanting to ask you if, you take interest in my work.” This is not what he was intending to ask…

 

Wilson then began a boring conversation, “with these colder times, that can bring more flea-borne illnesses as they seek warmth from animals and humans!”

 

Mr. Weston just stayed out and crinkled his eyebrows from hearing the information about fleas. He put down the cup onto the table, and rummaged through his trouser pocket. Taking out a wad of paper and a pencil. Wilson was now very interested on what was now the lad’s response. A rip of the paper was heard and was handed out before him. He took it and read in his head:

 

_“I would like to have an examination from you”_

 

Wilson's ears gotten a rush of heat. What kind of check up would it be? Another rip of paper was heard and he was given another note:

 

_“Please understand that this would be a private examination as it is personal to me. I have my trust in you to keep it a private examination”_

 

Wilson’s mind now switched to a physician’s state of mind with a gleam in his monocle. He nodded in agreement and gave a reassuring grin. Placing a hand on Wes’ own cold one, he looked at him and said, “I understand that house calls aren't in your capability, I have no appointments scheduled for today so you will be my only patient.”

 

The only response he was given was a quick one, a brush of lips were pressed onto to his cheek, like a stamp making its find mark on his face. He felt like there must something there left behind he couldn't see. Why did he do that? This gesture made the doctor lose his train of thought. A paper was slipped into his hand and Wes looked away and took a cucumber sandwich to nibble on. Wilson read the note:

 

_“I've once seen you on the streets of Norringway. A man said you were like a woman and you hit him with your cane. I want to know your history. As I too have faced such things.”_

 

From this paper alone Wilson felt his stomach slide down to his knees, but plop right back into place. Those damned rumors, Wilson hated going out because the mind gives tricks into believing everyone is out to get you, whispering on these rumors. He glanced at Wes who couldn't look at his reaction on the note, chewing slowly with glassy eyes, not taking a breath.

 

As he pulled down his monocle he nervously replied to him, “Mr. Weston I... I think there's a small misunderstanding. I’m not--”

 

A loud sniffle came out from him, oh no he was crying. His hands were curled into his brown shirt pulling into wrinkle lines. He quickly inhaled air and shakily breathed back out. Wilson was taken aback and had to say something in this sensitive situation.

 

“Mr. Weston you are not wrong… Please don't be upset.” He looked at him with soft eyes and ever so quietly spoken. “I'm…intersex. So I have experience and… interest in wanting to help for our sort of peoples.”

 

The expression change was apparent in Wes as he stopped his crying. The tear streaks were what remained from the quick burst of internal struggling with emotions. Wes puts the pencil back onto another sheet of paper, quickly writing and ripping it out to give it to the doctor.

 

_“I love you”_

 

Seeing those three words put Wilson into a flurry of heart throbs. He exhaled a breath of air through his lips and looked back up into Wes’ silver eyes. Wilson couldn't grasp what was happening before him, he couldn't think of what to do. He never, ever attempted courtship nor had he expected to be given any in his self isolating life. Never before had he faced a crush, no, a love struck tender moment tucking at his heart. His first gut instinct was to pick up Wes’ hand and plant a kiss onto his dry brown skin making him give a slight jump.

 

“I'll take care of you. I'll take good care of you…”

 

Keeping a hold of his hand, he stood up from the couch and let him stand up as well. Wes towered over by a few inches but so does every other person does. Wilson directed him upstairs on a carpet covered wooden stairway and into a small room. There was a desk and a lounge chair adjacent to each other with lamps hanging over them. A thick window curtain concealed any light from coming through, near that was a high wardrobe with a lock.

 

Wilson let go of Wes’ hand. “I would like to know what ails you, please sit down over there.”

 

Wes quietly lowers down to the lounge chair. He puts a hand on his chest, patting it to make a breathing gesture.

 

“Ah, I would presume so.” Doctor Wilson takes a stethoscope hanging above the desk and puts the buds into his ears. He places the end of the stethoscope onto his back. “Now, do that again but this time for real.” Wes takes in a small inhale and an exhale. “Hmm”, pondered Wilson, “I need you to breathe a bit more now, like blowing a candle.”

 

Wes tries again, taking a longer inhale, and when he exhaled out a wet fit of coughs were let loose.

 

Wilson's face lowered. “Oh dear. It's too early to immediately diagnose it as sweeper’s carcinoma. I don't want to take your breath away with such news.” Wilson put his lips together in an awkward grin and looked at his patient. His face scrunched up but looked amused, as if he didn't want to make Wilson disappointed in the use of the pun at this time.

 

Wilson placed around the stethoscope around Wes’ back. A cough was let out here and there, is that a crackle, a wheeze, a warble? He needed to move to the front of the lungs. Dr. Higgsbury kept a comforting tone, “I need to hear from your front, I want to know if that's okay. Would you be able to open your shirt?”

 

Wes swallowed hard and nodded his head. He let grabbed an end of his scarf and circled it around his head. From the top of the collar he unbuttoned down and down to the belly. Wilson’s eyebrows went up slightly as he eyed the clothing Wes was wearing underneath the shirt. A plain white undershirt with three buttons. Dr. Wilson puts his instrument on his chest.

 

“Hmm are you wearing more layers Mr. Weston? If… if it's a sort of brassiere for flattening your chest that should be removed.” Wilson tried to be sensitive with Wes on the subject. “I had worn them before but with the size of my bust I would get back pains.”

 

The young man eyed the doctor’s body. His dark coat masked his silhouette and the size of his belly deemphasized his chest. Wes began to slide off his sleeves and uplift his undershirt then remove his binding underclothing.

 

The doctor didn't take a long look, “Well you're smaller than how I am I can tell you that, they’re like grapefruits!”

 

Wes gave a silent chuckle at the remark, he tried to imagine what was underneath the doctor’s layers, was he really like what he said? The cold stethoscope was placed off center onto his chest moving giving Wes goosebumps down from the neck to his arms. Wilson's other hand was resting on his back, and with how close he's standing next to the quiet man there was more intimacy than needed. Wes took every second of it in silent delight. Mr. Higgsbury had been known to be a stern man with a common scornful expression but since that first day seeing him Wes hadn't known him as the reserved physician known to the public eye. Sure he was made to walk on newspaper like a stray dog in need of training but nonetheless by the time he seen the doctor use a salad tong to carry a lemon slice across a room that erased the stiff man of medicine impression.

 

Back when he was going his rounds of chimney sweeping the doctor seemed to have a tendency to keep an eye on him and darted his eyes when taken notice. Wes couldn't help but to think of just how silly this man was, or how he could be of any intimidation. He wanted to get to know him more.

 

The doctor put down his hands from Wes’ body, “Have you coughed out any phlegm? How long has this persisted?”

 

Wes nodded his head in response and held up four fingers. Four days of worry over how long before it's too late, four days thinking of how to not become another forgotten soul in the workhouse. His heart twisted at the thought of the current state of his life, he couldn't continue on, he mustn't. Dr Higgsbury was his only chance to live and find a way to escape his old life.

 

The stethoscope was placed onto the desk. “It sounds like an irritation to the lungs, perhaps bronchitis. The best cure for you is fresh air, and some mold juice I’ve grown myself capable of killing all kinds of harmful bacteria.” Wilson kept his eye on Wes’ and shifted his mood. “Do you...have somewhere to stay?”

 

The question made Wes droop down, he didn't want to go back, he mustn't. There was no choice he had to find work, but even then there was no choice to keep himself safe either. Wes placed his hands forward on Wilson and just pressed his head on his shoulders to let out another cry. He didn't want to move from this very home. There was nothing left to lose but his life.

 

“There there…I know…,” said Wilson, “I can allow to you to recollect yourself at my humble abode for a day perhaps.”

 

That last sentence brought Wes to sit back up. Stay over? In a real house? Tender thoughts flowed through Wes’ battered heart and surged with a healing flow. Keeping his hands clenched on the doctor’s coat he leaned back into him but this time made contact with his lips. Wilson was struck from this action but didn't move. Luscious lips locked into his own slowly sliding over the other. Hearts were pounding and clammy hands shaking. There should've been a moment of break between them, kisses should only last a second shouldn’t they? Yet they continued the walts between lips, holding their breaths to keep the rhythm. Eventually Wes had to break away to breath and cough out.

 

Dr. Wilson was slowly heaving, jared from what had just happened. He really was attracted to this young man with frazzled hair and brown skin. He felt like they were two butterflies sharing the same flight patterns going around one another. Those brown eyes speaks for him and they read love and a wish for hope. Wilson brushed a hand through his white streaked hair to regain his thoughts, “I-I-I think you could stay for a week perhaps, um h-ha-have you ever done… _this_ before…?”

 

The young man looked at him in confusion for what he could've _exactly_ mean by that. With a smirk on his face he slowly moved his hands down the doctor's body while keeping his eyes on his reddened and faintly freckled face. He could read it in that egg shaped face that there was curiosity on this feeling but kept his gaze indirect with his own eyes. Wes’ hands stopped onto the upper breast pockets of the waistcoat, placing a bit of pressure on his chest to get a feel of--

 

Wilson grabbed a hold of Wes’ wrists to lift them away. He turned his head to the side and cleared his throat, “W-Well I believe the best way to prevent you from having any worsening condition is to receive antibiotics, and a real good scrub.” The doctor put a hand in his right trouser pockets and pulled out a ring of keys. “There's a hypothesis that soot staying on the skin can be absorbed, causing nasty growths.” A key was put into the large cabinet near the window, when opened a wide assortment of bottles and boxes were held within. He grabbed a small brown bottle with a thick liquid.

 

“Just take a spoonful of this a day and you'll be as healthy as a horse in no time. Now for that bath…” Wes’ expression turned to curiosity as to what Doctor Higgsbury had in store for that prescription.

 

“Follow me Wes”, ordered the doctor as he left the room. He walked across the hall and into another door. Wes gathered up his shirt and underclothing and followed through. The doctor began rummaging through a wardrobe and pulled them out onto a bed. Grey flannel pants, two wool socks tucked into each other, white button down undershirt, and a pair of briefs. Wilson then turned to Wes holding up a white shirt to his shoulders.

 

“I hope you fit into these. This particular shirt I don't wear often much as the sleeves are too long and I prefer not to wear sleeve garters on a daily basis, but you'll be as snug as a bug in this!” His goofy grin returned back onto his face when presenting the shirt. Wes was uneasy at first for having to suddenly be in another man’s life and take their time and belongings, but seeing that doctor’s smile was so reassuring for Wes. Taking all of the clothing picked out in hand he walked to the bathroom, and this is the where him and Wilson separate.

 

Wilson lets the lad on his own in the bathroom, “I'll be downstairs if you need me.” With that said he proceeds to make his way out to the stairway. Thinking in his head of just how utterly homely he is being. How long would he continue on this love-struck feeling towards someone he’s seen for less than two instances. He then thought in his head, with most couples they really do start with being strangers. The use of the word ‘couple’ gives Wilson a mental rattle that squeezes his heart. The feeling of the kiss and being touched so delicately echoed in his head like the distant church bells every noon. Though there is no doubt that he truly does feel something from being with him, it had to be that. Going down the stairs and into the kitchen Wilson had another feeling growing inside him. Food.

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

Wes now was by his lonesome in the washroom. He stared at the the clean tiles and shiny brass like a magpie eyeing a sparkling wrapper. He noticed his own reflection on the metal, distorted in shape but it was even more upsetting to see in himself of how he looked. Blinking away he turned a gold tone brass knob a gush of hot water poured out, feeling the temperature was a delight for the fingertips. He slipped off the rest of his garbs to slide into the water, melting in bliss. His mind wandered to what the future could hold now under the care of that man he first saw doing an early autumn chimney sweeping…

 


	2. Penicillium notatum Persistence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wes the sweeper learns more tools and tricks of medicine. Moldy bread, leeches, and the most experimental cure; feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and comments are greatly encouraged as I want to continue on making more and new writings!

Mr. Higgsbury had an acquired taste for culinary dishes. He may not have the utmost skill in complex dishes, what he likes best is sweetness. Glucose consumption is something he needs to keep an eye on but he can’t help himself to it. It gives off a positive feeling throughout our bodies as the brain releases positive chemicals at the taste of it. On nights when the world isn’t best to him he conducts the task of cleaning the kitchen cabinet by consuming a baker’s dozen of stored cookies. It’s what the doctor, being himself, have ordered.

 

Wilson sliced down on a large cylinder of dried salami, then grabbed a bread from the bread box. He thought about how everything he must do to make Wes comfortable. What’s the average number of meals on a given day? How long would he stay here for? Where would he sleep? Wilson wasn’t enthusiastic on sleeping on his rococo styled couch or on the cold hardwood floor.

 

“My back hurts thinking of--AH!”, gasped Wilson who was surprised by Wes standing at the kitchen door. His hair like a moist mop and clothing clung to him twisted on his drying skin. His expression didn’t move much after hearing the doctor yelp in surprise but still glanced away from that awkward confrontation. Wilson says to him, “Soft footed aren’t you, heh heh. That was a quick bath.” He moved on over to the stove to continue what he was going to do. Wes took a seat at the small round table, eyeing the dry meats and cheeses, but didn’t pick at any just yet.

 

After just a few moments pass the plate of toasted dark rye slices arrives onto the table. The warm smell makes growling stomachs for the two. “Well now”, said Wilson, “I hope you’re bready for an afternoon dining.” The joke fell flatter than a sheet of paper but it didn’t make any difference, they started cutting away to the blocks of hard cheeses. Wes kept his eyes down and ate quietly. He thought about just how peaceful this moment is. Quiet and safe, no feeling of anxiety. This moment is just so foreign from how most his life have been, but he thought about how this is something he always wished for. Hit eyes gotten watery and hot, he blinked frequently to try to keep the waterworks in. A stream escaped and he quickly try to wipe it away to hide it. Though Wilson had been glancing at him throughout the meal and took notice.

 

He adjusted the monocle on his face and cleared his throat, “I know it’s not fancy, and it’s a little dry but this goes well with wine but I just don’t know if you drink…” His face was flashed with a set of hand gestures by the tear stained young man. “I’m sorry, are you itchy?” Another hand gesture was given to him but this time more recognizable. “Ah, you want to write something,,,?” He pulled out a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and gives them to the man. A note was given back in return:

 

_“I speak French Sign Language. Im sorry for sobbing, I never felt so safe.”_

 

He looked back up to see him, he avoided eye contact, gave out small coughs and sniffles. Wilson just wasn’t used to this arrangement of emotions but couldn’t leave him be. He slowly reached out his hand towards him. Wes looked at his hairy little fingers slide towards him, then give a little tap. He put his hand on top, feeling the contrast of their finger. Warm and cold. Clammy and dusty. Dry and soft.

 

Wilson took a breath in and explains to him, “I’m very good looking though even I have my times of doubt, guilt, dread, _crippling_ loneliness, _anxiety_ driven isolation”, he went glumly then with a change of tone said, “But I like to get things that make me happy!” He gave a small grin, “Do you want to know of one thing that makes me happy? _Leeches_.” Wes didn’t have much reaction in mind of how this chat is going. He stopped crying just from the confusion of the words that came out of the doctor.

 

“I’ll be back in a moment”, and with that he leaves his seat at the table. Wes kept put and saw the doctor bring out what looked like a funeral urn. Glazed and intricately designed, with bold letters reading LEECHES. Wilson looked at him with a grin enhanced by his shapely underbite. After placing it gently down onto the table he lifted the jar lid up and put a gloved hand inside. Out between his fingers was a dark writhing worm dripping water off it. Wes stood back the head of the chair, has this physician gone daffy?

 

“These annelids are best for ailments ranging from after surgery recovery to chronic arthritis. Sucking out foul blood collecting stagnant on parts of the body”. Under the light the leech was a dark green with rows of olive and orange spots. It climbed upward his hand like an inchworm, contracting and placing its back end down then stretching out waving its head around to look at the doctor. “Would you like to hold it? It won’t bite as long as you don’t let it tap a vein on your arm.” Wes gave a small shake of his head and kept his hands down on his lap.

 

Wilson sighs,“Oh _alright_ then, but they really are lovely to observe... Watching them place down their posterior sucker for locomotion is so pleasing, such soft squishy bodies.” He baby talked the leech and placed it back into the jar where more leeches were climbing to the edge of the jar for escape but kept back down with the lid.

 

“That’s my piece of happiness. Though, likewise I should learn more of what makes _you_ happy. I should be giving you what I’ve prescribed to you earlier for example!”, he had the funny grin back onto his funny face. He left once again to leave Wes alone with the jar of worms. He heard steps come back towards the kitchen and out came the Doc, holding a small glass bottle with a label.

 

“This came from a discovery when I’ve found that my colds were improved after consuming moldy bread!”, Wilson explained as he set the bottle onto the table. He pulled a drawer handle out to bring out a large silver spoon.

 

He looked back at Wes and said, “I’ve been trying to make a juice out of this mold to purify it. It would have quite the kick of a taste.” He poured out the white and grey slushy liquid out onto the spoon. Then he offered it to Wes to open wide. Wes clenched his fingers and didn’t bother to take a whiff of it. Quitting his thinking of it and opened up to take in the spoon, it tasted so bitter, so foul and musty. He swallowed it in one gulp to not have his tongue taste it any longer, immediately he began to feel a bit nauseous. He didn’t know whether that stuff would be breakthrough in medicine or a quack tonic that’ll put him on the stretcher. With one hand he gestured a glug motion to Wilson.

 

He got the picture and offered a corked glass bottle. There was no label on it and inside it had bits of debri floating inside yellow liquid. “Oh there’s no need to act suspicious it’s just tea, in room temperature form”, said Wilson with a somewhat reassuring toothy grin.

 

“My mold juice would have to be taken everyday until you’re better, okay now?”, he reminded.

 

Wes dreaded how long that could last for, but overall it is all better than any other situation he could be in right now. Under the care of the only person to trust.

 

He looks down at his plate of small foods and continued on eating. Wilson didn’t know what else to continue talking on for so seated back down with him. Cutting pieces of cheese, slice down salami, and catch himself staring at the quiet fellow with hair frazzling up as it dries. He thought of how his life could be different now. He can’t possibly shut himself off anymore now that there’s someone who’s just like himself in terms of emotional despair. A reflection of oneself, a man who can possibly be _the_ one to save him from himself if he lets his heart allow so.

 

He recalled how Wes did a short sequence of hand movements at him on accident. Wondering more on this he asked him a question, “Is your muteness an infliction with being hard of hearing or perhaps your vocal chords..?”

 

Wes blinked at him for a moments, and he grabs Wilson’s notebook that was left on the table and wrote with his left hand.

 

_“It’s personal”_

 

Wilson took the answer as a bit of a disappointment, but accepted that everyone has layers to show and keep hidden. With a shift of his monocle he cleared his throat and moved in a little closer to the table.

 

Thinking to himself he brought up another question to ask. “Have you come from France?”

 

Wes looked at him and his eyes seemed to shine, he gave a happy nod then looked back down to the table in a seemingly sad realization. This made Wilson wonder on what could’ve happened to make him come all the way to work here. He could ask a dozen more questions to him but Wes gotten up put his platter away to the sink and quietly walked out the kitchen. This made him feel as though he touched a button too close and upset him...

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

The time strikes 8 o’ clock of night under the coldness of the winter moon. The two gentlemen had spent the rest of the day doing unimportant tasks to avoid the question in mind for the current hour. The one bed of the house was large enough for two but the doctor was too decent to share. The thought of sleeping on the floor was out of the question. His couches were very elegant to look at but not comfortable to be on for hours at a time.

 

“I-I would love to still be on the bed if it were any bigger. The couch is too hard you see, and if I were to uhh, stay, beside you I might toss and kick and who knows what!”, Wilson said deciding on where to stay at. He looked at Wes for his opinion on this predicament. He kept his hands behind himself. Eyeing the size of the bed he looked at what must’ve been the puffiest blankets he had ever seen with pillows encased in covers with lace trimming.

 

“Well you’re probably more needing of this...I can go to the couch.”

 

With that, Wilson went to open the closet to grab some blankets. There were signs of moths eating at the fabric, a sign of needing to purchase more chemicals to weed them out. When he turned around he heard a sniffling sound. Wes was getting under the large blanket, eyes watery and sniffed consistently taking short breaths.

 

“Are you alright…?”, Wilson asked in concern. Looking around to know what to do and placed down the blankets at the end of the bed. Stepping a bit closer to it across from where he sat.

 

“If you have your regrets on staying here I could um, let you go on your own”, the doctor informed. Wes shook his head and wiped his face with one hand. Grabbing the notebook he did one pen stroke, but he stopped. He sat and stared at the paper, shoulder shaking as he quickly inhaled sniffles, only to continue his crying. Wilson nudged the blanket just a bit to sit down onto the mattress, he hesitantly brought out a hankerchief of his and brought out his arm towards the soppy faced man. It was taken gently and slow like a stray cat getting a nip of food offered by a kind animal lover. Wes felt embarrassed to be so fragile and weak in heart over his situation, taking so much from one man only because he was the only source for safety. He couldn’t tell how many minutes has passed but he felt like he had been dripping from his face for so long.

 

Wilson put down his monocle beside the night stand and looked to his side scratching the back of his head. He sat back up and said, “Mr. Weston I will be getting some tea if you don’t mind.” As he was gonna step out from the bedroom door he stopped and turned around, “Oh, and you won’t be alone as Mr. Bones is over here for company.”

 

This “Mr. Bones” is none other than the anatomical skeleton figure that was standing behind the door. Wes looked at it from wired toe bones to the yellowed skull where a top hat sat upon it. The most curious feature was how it wasn’t standing on a typical pole on an anatomy model, but it was held up by the wrists tied to a hat and coat rack. This didn’t seem to spook as much compared to only be seen as a humorous display. Mr. Higgsbury is a curious individual thought Wes, a curious and kind one.

 

Speaking of Mr. Higgsbury, he returned from the trip to the kitchen carrying a disc shaped tray with a sleek teapot and cup. They clattered with every step he took and Wes thought they could slide off the tray but it was placed down onto the night stand.

 

“Are you okay with me asking you what you’re thinking, now?”, he asked as he poured himself a cup of a strong dark tea.

 

Wes slowly torn off a paper and gave the message to him.

 

_“I feel so safe here. Tell me your experiences.”_

 

Reading through this made Wilson’s heart squeeze. What kind of experiences would he like to know? He thought about maybe telling just what he is, lay his cards out. He coughed out to clear throat and glanced at Wes who kept his face down low.

 

Wilson mumbled his words but repeated again, “I um, I was born with 5-ARD. To put into words what that is, it wasn’t visually apparent that I was, ermm”, he swallowed hard as his heart kept a hold of the squeezing feeling. “I was thought to be a girly. Didn’t last long before it was apparent that my thoughts and body did not turn out that way as you can see…” His words trailed off and the silence in the room smothered them again, only their breaths were heard. Fingers stayed still onto a teacup feeling the hot warmth spread to clammy hands as he sipped.

 

“I always had a feeling that I didn’t fit in to be...treated as how I was.” he frequently paused between sentences. “My mother, bless her soul, noticed this first, and by the age of 15 that’s when the effects of um, testosterone came into play.” By this time Wes felt a bit more calm and looked toward Wilson as he spoke.

 

“Those years were awful for me, not because I was turning into the shape of a bear cub, no.” Wilson said as he poked a finger onto his porky form. “The real torment was how everyone else reacted. Family, friendship, and whatever is above had to face the facts about the science of my disorder.” He bit his lip as he continued thinking on more backstory. “I don’t wish for any of that to ever be different. I’m just, so very glad I’m how I wanted to be. In this mortal form I’m in, the handsome devil I am!”

 

Wes grinned and blushed at that last remark, and Wilson looked back at him. He suddenly felt the squeezing in his heart come back.

 

“I think I’m just considered lucky to others who won’t _have_ that ability with their own bodies.” A word honked out in the sentence as his voice started to crack. He felt aware on his thoughts and how much so it’s a reflection against Wes’. He took a breath in and continued on, “I haven’t been to a family gathering in 6 years. Never dared making any _friends_ with colleagues in medical school, _why_ would I care to anyway when they were all just harsh goons.” His breath became less steady and eyes felt warmer and glossy. “I’m unsure if it’s just my self isolation, w-which by the way isn’t so burdensome, but I-I-I just can’t help but need to be with you--” Wilson gave in an uncontrolled gasp of air and shakingly wiped his eyes. He coughed out and pointed a finger, “I’m not crying, this tea is just spicy”.

 

Wes looked at him and cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. Wilson kept a gaze on those sad eyes of his which drooped like kidney beans, face still streaked with tears, lips soft as can be, with hair so untidy. The sight of such an innocent individual who’s been facing such possible hardships settling in society is just battering at his heart. Higgsbury never let himself be open on such memories and he was unsure on if this was a good idea for his mental health. His fingers clenched onto the porcelain teacup, nose runny and lip quivering. Slowly he crawled inward to a ball sniveling to himself, but Wes moved closer and placed a hand behind his back to comfort him. This created a ping pong effect of weeping woes from one to the other. Wes couldn’t help himself to cry once again and rested his head against the shoulder of his dear one. Warm tears dripped down to make dots onto the blanket.

 

Before they knew it they caught in an embrace with each other, like two doves huddling on a branch in the cold breeze. They were both in need of one another’s comfort and support, something that has been lacking for so long in their lives. Wilson raised his head and straightened his back, brushing his face against Wes’. That small touch made his freckled face get a tad warmer. All these emotions started to give him butterflies in his stomach, or was it heartburn? That sensation of heart burning butterflies instantly changed when a pair of soft lips met his own on the side, just a soft press. Wilson stayed still like a rock feeling light-headed and his sobbing was put to a stop. Desperate for more he shyly turned his head toward him but kept his gaze away, he puckered his lips to invite another sweet kiss. Ask and one shall receive, Wes gave another kiss, and another on the nose, and another on a cheek…

 

With hearts relaxed and rattled minds content, they traded their wish for ‘sweet dreams’ and were eased enough to earn a good night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own leeches and I very much so wanted to put my knowledge on them into this. More will added, tee hee.


	3. Vascular Gaft Gaggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young lad named Webber makes a surprise appointment. What do you get when you combine worms and spiders?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the apparent hiatus from this! I've been in a creative decay, emotional decay even. But enough of that now, here's the third installment of this story! One thing I would want to share is the real military doctor Dr. James Barry. He was a transman during the early 19th century! Okay, that's all I have to say.

A dreamless sleep can be more rewarding than a dreamy night. A quick night of sleep includes benefits such as a restful heart and clearing of migraines. This is especially more effective within a consistent sleep schedule in effect. During the night before Mr. Weston’s fated visit earlier in the week  Mr. Higgsbury had the most troubling dream in ages. It should be clear that this was not the first time Wilson has met the chimney sweeper. He can admit to himself that he never asked for Wes’ name nor even had the heart in him to give a good glance at his face. Within the now fading dream he had there was an envision where he had held his hands. They left no soot marks and felt remarkably real to the touch before waking up. Wilson could never up brought about this dream to Wes, not now at least. He never would’ve thought he could become a beacon of hope for the ill-fated man. Even after those few chimney services he had the months prior, he couldn’t understand what more could Wes see in staying with a man like himself. Though they have admitted interest in one another now, a part of Wilson’s hardened mind still barely fathoms the reality of it all. It was as if it were a dream come true of finding something, was it perhaps true love? Such an embarrassing yet pleasant thought...

 

Mr. Higgsbury has a striking french carriage alarm clock by his bed stand but the brain can be its own alarm. This clock is his only witness to his dreams. If he awakes at I it would usually mean he has one thing in mind. During II he’s due for twice the amount of servings of turkish delights. Hands on III represent how thrice has he increased chimney services payments to the sweeper. He shifted his body to lay on his back, but he had forgotten his guest is laying right beside him as well. He ended up squishing his arm underneath himself. Wilson rolled back around to release him. Being half awake he nearly rolled off the bed giving himself a racing heart. Wes didn’t even bother to flicker an eyelid. The edge of the blanket was up to the ridge of his nose until he grabbed at it to move it over his head to be completely under it. Wilson didn’t know if he’s willing to wake him out of his peaceful rest, but he still had a job to do in his life.

 

He sat back up to the edge of the bed and looked over to where Wes’ head would be. He leaned in to whisper, “I have to get ready to go to appointments later today, be a good lad now and suit yourself at my abode”. There wasn’t a response, as should be expected from the mute. 

 

Wes just wanted to sleep as long as he could, there was no need of having to get up and go. Life for him as a sweeper was all about hurrying up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready and hope to have any time to eat. A single slice of bread was barely a meal but it’s better than not eating at all. He would be lucky to arrive back before sunset to the Doss house in time to get an open four coin coffin. That life is over now, he can stay here, get back all those lost hours of sleep, cleanliness, and care. He never wanted to think about going back. 

 

He has forgotten the privilege of having a bed to sleep on, wide and comfortable. No stiffness or prickling hay twigs. Too much of his life has been snuffed down to keep himself afloat. Remembering any childhood memory makes his heart tender and heavy with sorrow. He now started to feel as he's been laying in for much too long. Wes hated catching himself bringing up memories. It only leaves an almost metallic taste in his mouth, and feel uncharacteristically hollow for the rest of the hour. He didn’t want to do anything now. Only exist in peace. 

 

There was a small click at the door as Wilson quietly opened it to leave. Hearing this made Wes wake himself up. He wanted to get up from the covers and beg for Wilson to hold him for just a minute, but he kept to himself. The door quietly clicked again. Wes looked up from the blanket to look around. On the other end of the oak door he heard the flooring creak from the other side. The dull blue wallpaper and grey droopy curtains reflected his current emotions. He is now completely back to being alone and so with this he took the opportunity to cry to himself. Keeping his face in the downy pillow to muffle his sobs. He didn’t mind himself for becoming a mess of himself onto the cloth as tears would dry clear. Clear like his words. The room was still– his body trembled. ‘Twas morningtide in Decembuary, and a fluke set him in repose.

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

Outside of the door Wilson buttoned up his waistcoat and walked to the restroom. A splash of cool water from his ceramic sink to freshen up his face and a light dab of cologne to his neck. Putting the coat he had over his arm onto a hook to hang. He grabbed a heavy lead brush to run through his bed hair to brush it back tidy. Wilson admired how well his hair looked and gave himself a smirk in the mirror, then tied his cravat in place. He grabbed his overcoat off the hanger and swung it over both his shoulders. Walking back to the bedroom he was careful to not disturb his beloved. He stood still only to move his hand on the door to open it. The medical bag he eyed for laid down on the floor across. Wes was facing near the bed, but when he walked closer he noticed his soggy eyes. 

 

“Weston, are you alright?”, creaking out from his throat. Wes lifted his up a bit but tried to move his face away to not be observed with such an indecent emotional look. He put his hand through the covers to find the handkerchief he was given last night. Wes noticed that the doctor had an odor coming off him, citrus-y and dull, but he felt oddly warm to be surrounded in this.

 

Wilson grabbed his bag then sat by the edge of the bed to perhaps say some words of comfort. He turned to him and said, “I think it’s about time for the _mold juice_!”

 

Wes kept his face down low wiping his nose and cheeks, sniffling and suppressing coughs. Wilson recalled how inexperienced he is with being a rightfully comforting to people. Being an eccentric physician can sometimes give him peculiar ideas on helping people. He has his reasons for not having friends over, but perhaps this time it will be different. Wes was not was just another person in the city. because Wes is one of the few people in his life he genuinely cares about and would want to check his health. 

 

"May you perhaps come with me to downstairs?", asking politely. Getting up from the bed he watched Wes to follow suite.  He sat up feeling hot and sore but the comfort of Dr. Higgsbury’s presence calmed him just a bit. His lungs felt so clogged and crackly like a crumpled paper being spread, coughing out as he tried to take full breaths. Wes felt warm from embarrassment for crying so often for the amount of time he remained here. The doctor's request helped pick his head up, drag his feet onto the crackly wooden surface, and out the door. 

 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he was greeted with the sight of a moldy concoction. Wilson poured out a spoonful and held it up with such stillness—  breaths were to be still in order to not spill a single drop. Wes knelt forward to consume a mouthful of dank tasting juice. It still made him queasy without a doubt, but he took it as he must. It was no different in texture with its bitter and curdled aftertaste, making his stomach sink in disgust. 

 

Wilson placed the spoon and bottle of mold juice onto a paper doily on a card table near a glass blown oil lamp. He breathed in and said to him, “I’ll be going off soon so I entrust that you'll remain inside of here right in this very spot.” The doctor stated that with sharp stillness with a pointer finger up as he spoke. Wes nodded his head in agreement. Of course he'll stay here, he wouldn't want it any other way.

 

Dr. Higgsbury gave a reassuring smirk and headed his way towards the door, but before he came to the doorknob he turned around with a turn of a heel. He came right up to Wes to look up at him with a straight back. Wes dimly stared at him in the eyes which seemed to be asking for something. Then it hit him, he shook his head and realized that maybe this was an invitation for a kiss. Wes found it cheeky for the doctor to come up like a cat waiting for a fish head, this gave him a dimpled smile and leaned down. Their lips met ever so gently and the contact made their minds buzz, then break apart with a wet smack.

 

Wilson leaned his head back feeling like if he was as light as the lightest goose down. Wes looked at him back with the same half lidded eyes of yearning. Their eyes were instantly locked apart when a sound scratched at the door, then three small knocks. Wes’s face reddened as if they were caught in the act of the romantic display and on the other side of the door would be their tattle teller. Wilson’s iconic scowl sprawled down onto his face and he briskly walked to the front door. He ran through the three locks then twisted the doorknob. Wes couldn’t see who could be at the door as no one stood tall above him until the voice of a child was heard.

 

“Can you fix our knee?”, asked the unannounced visitor. He donned a blue and white boy’s school uniform with even whiter shining eyes reflecting like glass orbs. With a mouth lined with sharp teeth with one apparently missing from a pedipalp. The bug eyed kid kept a paw on a knee with some hairs scraped off. 

 

Wilson scratched his head in annoyance. He put his hand in his pocket to pull out a gold tone skeleton shelled pocket watch- both hands were on IX, 9:50 AM. Upon closing the watch case he tilted his head as he spoke to the boy, "Now this isn't the place for children to loiter in. Come back when you've broken bones rather than skin." The doctor made one step out from the doorway when the schoolboy interrupts him once more.

 

"Oh! Am I shupposed to make an point mint?", asked the boy. The set of words bewildered Wilson on the meaning for a moment, "You mean appointment." He closed the door and took another two steps. Once more the curly furred youth stayed by him like a mutt who could smell through one's grocery bag. 

 

"You're the besht doctor who fixesh everyone! I want to be jush like you!"

 

Those golden words cracked through Wilson's hard film of a heart. He is indeed the best self proclaimed physician- though it's best to say that having no competition helped with this title. He brought out his gloved hand and patted the head of the schoolboy, "Come along inside, dear err arachnid. You'll never learn as much as I have but perhaps close to so." He reopened the door and allowed the boy inside. Wes was still standing in the same spot as he had when minutes before they were sharing their tender moment. 

 

Wilson guided the new patient to a love seat by the fireplace, "Just sit tight over there and I'll be right with you uhh, your name?" 

 

"Webber. Gee, what a room! It would be bad if I broke shomething, huh?”, exclaimed Webber. 

 

"I would _hope_ you would have the manners to not break any person's belongings for that matter,'' Wilson muttered. "You are to call me Doctor Higgsbury, and that over there is Mr. Weston."

 

Wes wiggled his fingers at Webber who waved his tiny clawed hand back. Wilson placed his case down and knelt down to examine the troubled knee. There was a rough shaped scrape where hair would've been. The lack of scabbing indicated slow healing, it was discolored and slightly swollen. It was no small scrape as it was the size of Wilson's monocle. He opened up his medical bag and took out a bottle labeled 'Isopropyl Bathing Alcohol' and some cotton. The cork top was removed with a pop, and he began dabbing the infected area.

 

Webber squirmed from the feeling, " _Owwwwieeee_ ".

 

Wilson attempted to ease the boy, "This was just a quick rubbing. Stay right where you are." He stood up and went upstairs to his personal ward.  Wes was now alone with Webber, he slowly crept forward to sit on the small stiff sofa across. He realized how he was still wearing his night clothes. He then fiddled with his front collar to keep his hands occupied. 

 

Webber opened his toothy mouth, "Do you live with the doctor?"

 

The question made Wes blush for some particular reason. Is he allowed to disclose such information to a stranger? Yet, being that Webber is simply a good mannered young boy he bashfully nodded yes.

 

The creaky step sounds returned, and out came Higgsbury carrying a peculiarly shaped jar reading LEECHES in front of it. Wes thought back on when he was shown the active worms that the jar contained. He had heard of the practice of Hirudotherapy but not much more from that word. Wilson removed the top of the earthenware and inserted his had to bring forth a single leech. Webber looked with large eyes, seemingly bigger than what they already are.

 

"It's a _wormy_!', he stated enthusiastically. 

 

Wilson placed a lip back onto the jar and came close to Webber. "Now, just relax as I apply the leech," instructed Wilson. The worm crawled through his fingers then climbed onto Webber's knee, feeling around the surface of the scrape. Webber giggled feeling the small cold thing move about, until he saw it plunger down. 

 

Wilson sat back up onto the couch next to Wes, "The hirudin within it’s saliva will help you heal the knee faster. Bring forth good blood into the wound with anticoagulants. Quite an easy fix, you see!"

 

Webber was enthralled at the tiny leech suckered onto his knee. The red and green striped annelid latched on and slowly worked its tiny three jaws to make a bite. "Does it have a name?", Webber asked.

 

“A _name_ ? They're medical things not pet companions,” Wilson replied. He sat back up to sit besides Wes. “Why should I give _every_ single leech a name?”

 

Webber’s eyes widened in shock, “Wormies have _feelings_ and need names! You should pet them more, wormy wormy”. His eyes focused back on the little leech that remained latched onto the knee.

 

Wilson put his fingers on one end of his glove to slide it off. He then grabbed a notebook from his pocket, “Well how about this, we’ll name the leeches Esquire. Done.”

“What’s this one gonna be named?” Webber asked, keeping one leg still while the other swung back and forth hitting a heel onto the seat cushion.

 

“I’ve told you, they’re all Esquires”, Wilson scribbled a note to himself into the notebook. It an importance to himself of keeping track of who comes in and why. Wes peered onto the sheet of paper:

 

_Child Patients must be accompanied by a parent/guardian. Period._

 

Wes rolled his eyes with a grin on his face for the silly text. Webber pokes a claw on a cheek to think, “Why?”

 

Hearing this made Wilson pinch himself between closed eyes, “Why? They all look exactly the same how on earth could I be able to identify every single one of them?” The absurdity of the topic was starting to give Wilson split ends. He loved leeches undoubtedly, but he wasn’t invested in babying every one of them. When one dies in his care it would ruin his mind if he loved them too much.

 

Webber peered over to the leech jar to examine the other leeches. Wilson grunted seeing the child handle the jar handle.

 

“You be careful! I only meet the tradesman twice a month to give me whatever he finds in the medicinal leech traps.” He exclaimed as Webber seemed to point and count the leeches.

 

“They all look different! See this one’s belly? It’s got frecklesh like your face, and this one has lotsh of orangey stripes”, the boy went on noting the tiny features. "Ooo this one has an orange belly and green back, it's like a pumpkin."

 

Wilson was in disbelief, not from the fact Webber was identifying differences, but that he hadn't written this down. He felt a need to document this for whatever information needed in the future. He shooed the bug boy away from the jar. “Medicinal leech is a title not a species. It’s obvious they have genetic differentiation, but it won’t do me no good to keep track of them quickly.” He curbed discussing on the possibility he has mixed species in his collection.

 

“Can I draw something?” Webber had a hand out and gripped his claws to gesture he wanted some paper. Wilson hesitatingly ripped out some sheets and placed them on the table. At this point he’s passing the time while the leech on duty drinks up.  Webber took out crayons from a pocket and drew whatever he noticed on the worms.

 

Then he pulled up the paper, “Look! This could help picture them.”

 

“Is that a pickle?” Wilson commented on the crude image of a scribbled oblong thing with a yellow smiley face.

 

“Hmm, allow me to properly present what a scientific illustration must show.” Webber looked at what Wilson attempted to show with an open mouth in wonder. “Figure A. is lined up to here, the posterior sucker. It’s a common misconception that the larger end is the mouth.”

 

“It’s a foot!” exclaimed Webber. Wilson sighed and ignored the comment. “The head has ten simple eyes. The anterior sucker, which is where the jaws are, have three tiny jaws with the smallest of teeth. Sawing into your flesh as we speak.”

 

“The pigment is olive green with orange, yellow, and red textile patterns. Exquisitely beautiful in—“

 

Wes elbowed onto the doctor’s side. He presented a paper which apparently had the sketch of a leech. Wes was able to capture the patterns with only one pencil, ring segments, and roundness of the worm. Wilson looks back at his own drawing which couldn’t compare in details.

 

“How did you do that?” he asked. Wes jollying shrugged his shoulders. 

 

Webber giggled seeing the drawings from the two, then he stopped when he felt movement on his knee. The leech was filled like a sausage casing with blood and searched for a place to head off to. Wilson went after it and held it before it could fall off. The Y shaped bite mark dripped with watery blood as the anticoagulants were in effect. Wilson places the leech in a glassware and reached for a new bottle in his bag. Hydrogen peroxide. With another cotton piece he dipped some of the liquid and rubbed it onto the area. The blood fizzed, and Webber kept a hand over his eyes in disgust the moment he saw the foam. The doctor placed a wad of cotton and wrapped it in place with gauze.

 

“You can put your hand down now, Webber”, Wilson quickly tidied up the area placing forks back into bottles.

 

Once done he turned to Webber. “Remember to wash the wrappings as that wound would continue bleeding for at least 12 hours.”

 

Webber slowly stood back up to his curly fuzzy feet, made a kicking motion on his legs. He then went up and hugged the doctor.

 

“Thank you Doctor Higgsy!”, Wilson was stunned from being clung onto suddenly.

 

“Oh don’t thank me, and it’s _Higgsbury_ , mind you!”

 

“What’s Wormy Esquire going to do now?” pondered Webber.

 

Wilson let the boy’s claws let go from his coat. “Well, since you’re likely to have monster blood. The leech is biohazardous, it may not be able to digest your blood as well. It’ll go into the killing jar later and—“ Webber bursted in a sob. 

 

“You can’t kill it! It has my blood!" He rambled on with big watery eyes. "So it’s half boy now, you wouldn’t kill us, would you, Doctor Higglesbur?” Webber was hysterical over the thought that the doctor would end the life of the small thing. It laid there all fat and tapped at the glass the same direction towards Wilson, like as if it could listen to his words.

 

“I’ve always heard that children have _wild_ imaginations, but are you _really_ suggesting that if I were to eat a rotisserie chicken I’m part chicken?” Wilson gripped his hands in hopes Webber would understand his logic to keep his voice down. 

 

“Yesh it does, I have a gold filling so that means i’m part gold'', he replied. 

 

Wilson was starting to be worn down for the day already from doctoring. He picked up the glass cup with the leech and the Leech Jar.

 

“I’ll let Esquire live the rest of its days in retirement, happy now?”

 

Webber smiled and his bristles calmed down into a soft coat. He nodded his head and gave a toothy grin. Wilson was relieved on the response and went back upstairs to return the leeches. Wes poked Webber’s shoulder and made a funny face to make a Wilson impression. He folded his brow and adjusted an imaginary monocle. Webber giggles as he understood what Wes was doing. Hurried steps came back down the stairs and Wilson was on his pocket watch to observe the time.

 

“It’s been a whole hour, I would’ve been an hour early at my appointments. Doctors don’t do charity work you know. So take this as a one time deal, my boy.” Wilson advised with sharpness with a snap of his pointer finger. He packed up his pack and was ready to go as originally planned, not until the child leaves his home first. He held open the door to excuse Webber out. The spider boy skipped out the door thanking Dr. Wilson once more. 

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

There was finally room for air to breath. Wes enjoyed seeing how he handled children, it was humorous to him. We walked over to Wilson who was fiddling in his pockets to check he’s got everything. Wes places a hand on his hair to brush back a stray hair. The touch made Wilson flustered and stop what he was doing.

 

 He made a smile that warmed his scrunched face instantly. “Thank you, Mr. Weston… I’ll see you tonight.”

 

With that final farewell he closed the door behind himself, silence fell back throughout the home. The faint smell of rubbing alcohol and chemicals still lingered in the air. Wilson’s dark oak furnishings seemed extra warm to the eyes. The brown highlights on the smooth curves. They were polished and ornate. During his past sweeping duties his clients kept an eye on him if he weren’t in the chimney. Wes knew what they were thinking. He was only focused on his job, and doing it as quick as he could to not bare anymore time within blackened brick walls

 

Wes took a deep breath, and gave out a single cough to clear his throat. There  wasn’t a feeling of woe from being ill or from the thoughts he had in the morning. He felt at ease and calmed from being a part of Wilson’s work in a way. Wes looked back at the little paper he drew on. His eyes wandered to a picture frame which had an image of Wilson sitting on the ledge above the fireplace. Wes decided to place the drawing onto there and smiled to himself. He was going to enjoy living here. For once, he could dream easy for his future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a week for me to resume finishing, editing and writing a few hundred words a day. So if this story tickles your fancy why not... oh you know:  
> https://ko-fi.com/dragonhead


	4. Hither and Thither, Hindsight and Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The style of living between Wilson and Wes are made apparent. What seems like everyday tasks to one could be completely new experiences for others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo this took a long time to work on, and the word count for this chapter is the most yet! The book that will be referred in this chapter is something I own, as my collection of items from the 19th century grows.

The cottage Higgsbury lived in resided at a residential area a few miles from the main city. On a good year he’ll earn a very good income of, say, 1,000 red marks paid. For those at the top of the pile, life was very comfortable. Living on the eastern side he rubs elbows with the metropolitan uppercrust. He ruled his household with a rod of iron. The city is north of the bog. Goats rubbing elbows with the uppercrust with their most beautifully kept cemetery and lovely pink-as-a-periwinkle sugarwood trees, so he heard. There’s only vague memories of the area from the one instance he passed through the city in its glory days. Recently there’s been outbreaks of disease in the area and so all he gets in the paper is another loss, another riot, and another advertisement for cure-all medicines. It was uncommon for him to get visits as typically he expects calls or mail. Wilson was thankful for not having nosy neighbors asking for a cup of sugar during his pill rolling routines. His closest neighbors are aquamarine furred goats. The one few visit the doctor had with a neighbor was for an appointment. Which later involved the police and forensic science. 

 

Paris Green was all the rage lately, but Wilson didn't fancy the color as much as the complementary opposite, Persian Red. When his worried neighbor came to his front door bleating out what was wrong Wilson rushed to the home. Upon arrival he was informed of convulsions, but once he came the little kid was in a semi-comatose state. He learned that the child refused meals the previous evening. Ears limp and breathing stilled, the young goat was of three years in age. The symptoms shown was equal to that of poisoning. When Wilson told that the family they were in disbelief. An old gentlegoat argues with the maid, the mother goat sobbed over the frail body of the kid, lifeless and blue tongued. This was beyond Wilson's care as he was only there to diagnose whatever illness, which in this case was too late for him to heal. He later took note of the peeled wallpaper on the playroom wall. The source of the killing was immediately made clear, indiscriminate use of poisonous pigments. Take a leafy green pattern and combine it with that of a weaning child, together there would be teething. The authorities later came to the scene to settle the disputes and to cover the body. Thanks to the observations of Dr. Higgsbury it has been ruled the death was accidental. The kid had chewed the attractive arsenic infused wallpaper off a wall like a fresh salad, the last greens of the season.

 

Other medical practitioners from what he's read in the paper would agree with him. Many mysterious deaths in all classes linked to the beautification of arsenic. Though there wasn't always things other doctors in the medical field could agree on. The mold juice could be a breakthrough in science. He has yet to write a full thesis on its use and more information on the species of the fungi. But, with the help of his patient there could be more of a chance on his medicine in development. The invention of new medicines could help prevent the imbalance of the four humors at the source.

 

The carriage took a final turn to the left to arrive at its destination. Wilson put a hold onto the railing. With a swing of his arm he flicked the end of the whip to the backside of the cloudsdale beefalo. It immediately got the idea and trotted along down the street clacking its iron shoes. Once the home of destination was near he coaxed the beefalo to step out towards the barn doorway.  It had large horns with blunt iron caps, thinning fur and a tail that constantly flicked about to whip flies. Bred in the Elder Bog region, it’s immense size makes it the perfect animal for power. Wilson grabbed together his horse whip and climbed down the tiny ladder on the stage coach. The tiny carriage seemed to wobble with every movement, as though it could tip over any moment if Wilson happened to be any taller size. 

 

The doctor stood at the front door to unlock it, after flipping the lock it creaked open. A breeze of cold air sliced into the gap of the front door. He walked down the dry wooden floor laiden with dry hay and dirt. He noticed the front area seems more duller in color than he last remembered. Going around the corner of the building he stopped by a wide door, with a firm grip of the handle he pulled up with as much force as his little body can carry up. The smell of hay and barley blew into his long nose making it wrinkle. The beefalo already started to walk into the barn to get away from the cold winter air. Its nose came right up to Wilson’s face and gave a wet huff. 

 

“Oh don’t give me none of that now, Henry.” Wilson placed his bag into the small carriage nearby, “You’re well behaved like a gentleman, aren't you?” The equine bovine of sorts gave a sniff and a head tilt at the doctor. This made him sigh at the non verbal response. He proceeded to undo the straps and harnesses on the creature to lead it to the stable. Taking a pail he scooped up a few buckets of chaff to bring in a fresh portion of eatings for the beefalo.

Within the cottage, Wes sits in the bedroom looking through the wardrobe of Wilson’s room. He ran his hands through the coats and waistcoats belonging to the doctor. Fine wool textures softer than any cloth he’s worn before. Picking one up from its hanger, he tries one on for size. A double breasted tweed overcoat, unfortunately it’s not his size, but it leaves an impressionable thought on his mind. Wes thought of a mental image of Wilson in evening clothes and top hat carrying a cane in one arm and Wes’ own arm on the other. His very first impression on Wilson based on a sweeping visit, was that Higgsbury was a curious man. When the front door was opened he was greeted to a stout man with a skunk for hair. The impressive white stripes on smooth black hair was a trait Wes found appealing. There was a lingering feel of longing for when the doctor would arrive. Clock bells rang through the living room as it strikes 6:00. The sun had set early and oil lamps illuminate the room. Basic room temperature was chilling colder, Wes grown more anxious for Wilson's arrival. Speak of the devil, there was the faint sound of keys. Ears picked up the noise and he paid attention to the door knob in anticipation. 

 

A dark figure carrying bags lumbered in, a monocle shined from under the lamp light. Wes came up to him and helped close the door and lift off the weight of the day. 

 

"Weston, why is it so cold in here? Have you grown a fear of chimneys since you’ve quit the sweeper job?" He handed over the paper bag and leather case to direct Wes to drop them off to the dining table. Wilson walked to the dining room to start up the range to use the kettle. 

 

He looked over to peer at Wes settling down his bags. "Now, have you had a bite since I've left, Weston?" There a small nod, then a little cough as if it was just another reminder of his ailment. Walking back to the living room he took a tinderbox off from the chimney to light a log of wood. With a spark and a smolder of paper, a flame slowly grew. The small fire gate was closed to let the fire increase in size. Wilson unbuttoned his coat and turned, Wes stood right behind him, with a small grin and indirect gaze. 

 

"I know what you must be thinking..." Wes changed his expression to confusion on the statement. "How could a stately rich gentleman like me, only have beefalo sausages and dry cheese for edibles?" That was something Wes did ponder earlier when glancing through the kitchen at noon. There was more chemicals and tools in the kitchen than what should be stored. The bottles of salt and apple cider vinegar are awfully close to potassium and sulfates. 

 

Wilson opens up the paper bag to take out a wrapped package, it had a hearty delicious smell. He unwrapped it to reveal a dish of mixed green beans with nuts and butter. Real vegetables. Taking out another wrapped bundle, within it was three dinner rolls covered in tiny black seeds. Wes watched with wide eyes and kept his breath to see what other wondrous sides could offered. A jar with sweet pickles and carrots. Glass cups holding a creamy pudding with powdered chocolate. Paper basket with a small confectionery of marzipan sweets. Finally, Wilson put two hands to dig into the bag to carry out a paper box with a chicken fricassee and specialty potatoes. Seeing all the food laid out started to bring water to Wes' eyes, and of course, mouth.

 

Wilson was nervous showing the food. Should he have asked about allergies and food preferences first? Should he heat it up to bring back the steam? The piercing tweeting of the kettle helped break a bit of silence between the two. 

 

Clearing his throat he turned around to grab a cloth and set aside the kettle. "How do you like your tea? One or two sugars?" Wilson asked as he opens a ceramic jar lid and grab two tea cups. Wes held up two fingers then watched the doctor take out a square tin box of earl grey. A silver sugar tong was picked out to plop in sugar cubes into the hot water. Wilson leaned his head over his shoulders.

 

"Wes, you are _very much_ welcome to dine. I've brought this for you... and um.” There was a moment loss of words. Wilson couldn’t admit on the issue on why he provides so little when it comes to food. He shook his head and resumed as he was saying, “I don't cook much admittedly! I dine out but since you’re here, I shan't let you starve-"

 

The taller man went up with a swoop and wrapped his arms around the plush waist of the doctor, head resting into his streaked, smooth hair. Wes was full of gratitude and love for the offering. Wilson’s heartbeat was beating through his ears, his monocle comically pops off his brow to dangle below, tapping next to Wes’ arm. From memorie’s past, hugs were remembered as invasive sieges of personal space, but this time it felt different. There was no feeling like this, not once had he ever thought he could have wished or needed close contact with another being. Wes released him and wiped his face, but Wilson internally wished he would have kept that hug going on for a little longer. All he did in response was offered a cup with an ahem. Gentle hands took the cup and saucer, with a small exchange of fingers slipping against each other. 

 

Taking note from memory on where the sugar tongs have been stored, Wes opened a drawer to find the cutlery. A wide display of forks, spoons and other tools that weren’t recognizable to him. He only took one medium sized fork with small ornate silvery details from the collection and closed the drawer, then took a seat to be faced with the food. 

 

First thing to be stabbed with the prongs of the fork were the individual chicken fricassee. Meat was so hard to ever purchase with the money he earns from sweeping, and to having a mouthful this very moment was decadent. Oily drippings oozed out to trickle onto the surrounding sliced potatoes. Amazingly, the meat was still warm despite the winter air. He turned to the green bean dish, they gave a satisfying crunch. Vegetables are a huge change from the cracking of hard crusty chalk infused bread loaves. The thought of bread made his eyes wander to the rolls. He was curious on how different these could be from the bakeries he’s familiar with, where bakers work long grueling shifts to bring adulterated foods to be any close to being affordable. Wes took a bite of the soft roll in his hand, and enjoyed it immensely. There is real flavour, no bitter taste, he could swear that this had no trace of alum sticking to his tongue or grit of sand in his teeth. He felt so overjoyed to have a hot meal, to feel satiated with no stomach pains. No tampered produce and no portions with inedible ingredients. There was almost a feeling that he could cry in this very spot, but he was far too busy eating to keep that in mind. Gobbling down every dish piece by piece.

 

Across from the table, Wilson sipped his tea silently. He was busy watching Wes hog down the food in a mix of horror and amazement. For one thing, Wes should be using different utensils and focus on a complementing tastes. There should be breaks between changes of palette, and he hadn’t touched his tea yet to wash down the bites. Wilson blinked a few times to realize how rude it is of himself to stare at the man. It felt unruly and against all he has ever learned about table manners. Though, he recalled how this week he let a sooty sweeper on strike have a free appointment was the start of his sullied mind. Maybe Wes doesn’t mind the company of his eyes wandering to watch the rate of his appetite and BMI.

 

Until finally Wes had his fill wiping his mouth clean, picked up the already lukewarm tea and chug it all down. He sighed out loudly, content. The one thing has left untouched was the marzipan sweets cut in small shapes with dyed colors. He started to pick up his dishes but Wilson raised a hand to halt him.

 

“Don’t even think about washing them, it’ll be taken care of.” Wes settled the plates back down onto the table cloth, awkwardly grinning from the response. Wilson stood up from his seat and gathered the cups, “Why not rest hm? No need to wait for me to ask you permission on everything.” Wes shook his head and tried to keep the advice in mind, he was just much too grateful to act like he owns the place. But if Wilson is so certain… perhaps a bath could be in place.

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

Within the spare room that was transformed into a medical lab, there’s a section of shelves that contained many books and journals. Tall jars held wet specimens of donated organs for medical observations. Smaller containers in a locked glass cabinet held more volatile substances. The heat from the fireplace had warmed the rooms to a comfortable temperature. Black gloves unsheathed off clammy hands and stuffed into coat pockets. The coat was then removed and hung over onto a chair. Wilson eyes for something in the shelf, fingertips running across the titles, then stopping onto a blank hardcover spine. He then takes it out from between the books, and prop it open on the desk. Everyday he catalogs anything of importance. Patient names, costs and billings, keep track of any due dates. This journal in particular was solely for his own musings. Tapping a quill to drip off excess ink, he starts to write. The only things on his mind was in relation to the young man in heart. His activity today, how courteous his actions were, the lovely freckles on his nose which matched Wilson’s own on his rosy cheeks. Eventually there was a halt in writing, it was almost as if his mind but a break on his sappy state in discipline. 

 

He couldn’t rid the flushed redness on his face, he knew what he was feeling but he wanted to do something about it. His medical train of thought immediately brought up a solution. A cool towel for the face to lower body temperature and to drink fluids. 

 

In fact, he could get himself ready for bed some time soon. All the surprise visits and tending his tasks within schedule racks up stress so sleeping it off sooner would help alleviate it. That is the plan. Moving out of the office, he opens the door to his bedroom, but was met with an unspeakable sight. 

 

Wrapped in a white towel in front of the wardrobe was Wes. His skin had a sheen against the warm light of the oil lamp. The soft fluffy hair locks where now limp strands dragged down to his face.

 

Higgsbury’s heart was practically darting through his chest cavity being in the presence of the ill-dressed man. 

 

“P-P-P-Pardon me, I was just, you see I’m…” He fumbled his grip on what to think of saying. A hair strand curls upward with a spoing. His focus was completely gone. Only now fixated on what he could tell, was Wes wearing at least a pair of socks. One hand kept a hold of the towel edge up to his collarbone, his other hand was rummaging through the shelves. He paid little mind on Wilson besides hurrying on looking for something, perhaps some actual clothing to put on.

 

Wilson tried to gather his words, “I-I-I was just, why, going to get some night clothes as well.” Now is a proper time to take a step. Nervously avoiding putting his eyes on Wes’ body, he shuffled over to the correct dresser. 

 

“M-M-My night clothing and um, ahem, undergarments are on the bottom drawer, y-you see?” He stammered.

 

Wes walked over and with one swoop picked up a nightgown, given a little smirk to Wilson. Heading back to the restroom before shutting the door behind the tail end of the towel. The blood in Wilson’s veins returned to his head, feeling light headed full of candy floss and all. He shouldn’t be giddy over the situation it’s not becoming of a gentleman! Though the image of Wes, immodest and all, remained at the back of his retina like a delicious glazed caramel apple. Wilson stood there like an unresponsive pigeon, until finally sense warmed back into his mind. Night clothes. Getting a nightcap and set of clothes, he recalled what he just told. He regretted mentioning his undergarments. 

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

Returning back into the bedroom, Wes calmly stepped close to where the bed already occupied by Wilson. His face was buried in a book, two other books were beside him on the nightstand. In a gentle fashion, Wes lifted the blanket and quietly laid into the bed. He wasn’t feeling tired, but there wasn’t much in mind to say at the moment. Only feeling bashful on the subtle intrusion that occurred moments ago. Wilson cleared his throat as if he wanted to get his attention. He lowered the book to his lap.

 

“I have been needing to speak with you,” he stated. “You can tell anything you need in this here journal.”

 

The book Wes thought Wilson was reading turns out to have blank pages. It was bound in a dark burgundy leather with faint border designs. A red ribbon laid in the middle of the spine with a shiny reservoir pen. When handling it, he couldn’t think of what to say, or write. He looked back at Wilson who pressed his lips together in an awkward smile. Picking up the pen with his left hand, Wes rested how the flow of ink was. The round metal nib ran across the paper so smoothly. It was the cleanest writing he’s ever done, it almost felt too classy to conduct. When finished, he handed the journal to Wilson. Looking at the page he read the written message to himself:

 

_Thank you!_

 

A satisfying chuckle came out of him, “Ohh well, it is only a small gift, you are the one in the first place to write to me.” Recalling on the messages he sent, letters could be their best form of communicating. There were questions in mind to say, many questions in fact. Giving back the journal Wilson asked the first one in mind.

 

“You’re well in penmanship, have you attended any schooling?” 

 

Wes blinked a few times and jotted down an answer. The page was tilted into view to be read.

 

_Basic schooling. Then attended sign language institute for Parisians._

 

After reading this, Wilson was both surprised and curious. “Are you French?” he asked. “How could someone like you end up in a sea-port town like this?” 

 

The words made Wes wince his eyes hearing at. He was slow in writing his response. The small pauses between words made Wilson start to feel if he shouldn’t continue with the subject. 

 

_Family couldn’t continue paying for college. Didn’t want me around anyway. I had nowhere else to go._

 

The curiosity dissipated out of Wilson. Wes remained still seated on the bed, his eyes felt heavy looking down at the paper. Heart squeezed with pain, or perhaps it was just his bronchitis. He felt ashamed that there was little for Wilson to learn about himself that wouldn’t cause a melancholy atmosphere. He then felt Wilson’s hand fall against the side of his arm.

 

“I understand, I truly do. My family aren’t the strongest of bonds, either” 

 

He scratched an itch on his face. “My family was quick to bring me up to be a gentleman once doctors examined the intersex condition I’ve had.” His words were soft, barely audible to Wes’ ears. “I was left isolated from family gatherings and public schooling. I was content, but sometimes I didn’t feel if I belonged to either gender.” 

 

The room was silent. Ticking of clocks were the only ambiance surrounding them.

 

Wilson leaned back on the pillows. “During grad school those worries dissipated, at least that’s what I thought.” The room felt warm, like an oven preheating for a pound cake worth of pity.

 

“Usually I don’t care about what people think, not at all! But what do people think of me? I had to bare a great many insults.” He looked at Wes who listened intently. 

 

“During school holiday I was with my father and mother for dinner.” He gestured his hands around as he talked. “Now, this was when I was at my peak of work and could only think of the weight of what to prepare for once I head back.” 

 

Wilson tried to think back on the memory and his eyebrows crinkled down to his eyes. “I barely had a clue on what I wanted my profession to be and I could barely handle the people!” His nose wrinkled as he sniffed a breath. “My father turned to me and said ‘Your problem is that you are a deviant’.” There was a sting in the tone he changed to. “This was the first time my father returned to mentioning my condition. My heart throbbed with gratitude.” 

 

Wes couldn’t think of what to tell as a means of comfort. He simply rested his head onto Wilson’s side. This touch was enough to make him tighten up. His heart ached, he imagined Wes felt the same way. 

 

“I prattled for much too long haven’t I? It’s best if we should sleep now don’t you think, Mr. Weston?” There was a crack in his voice saying the sentence. He dimmed turned the knob in the oil lamp to dim the room back into darkness. Wes could easily read the pressure that has built from the conversation.  With a hand, he held onto his side. He reminisced the reason for his visit here. He came to Wilson not only for help, but for the fact he was someone so decent and admirable. He never had experiences on how relationships would work, but he’s firm with his need to give the same amount of respect and love he has felt in return. 

 

Wilson kept his eyes closed, tense from remembering the things he has told. When feeling Wes’ arm around him it conflicted with his past discomfort on being touched. It never applied to Wes. He loved every moment of attention Wes gave to him. Wilson felt exposed and out of his element being so open about his life, but at the same time the warmness of Wes cancelled out the need to shut away. He loved Wes, he must admit. That was the truth. But, he couldn’t bring himself to calm, it felt forced to sleep now. Raising up from the pillow he reached over next to the lamp and relight it.

  
“We meet sorrow often enough, to render imaginary ones quite superfluous.”

  
Wes returned to look at Wilson who risen back from cancelled slumber. He didn’t understand what every word was spoken but his attention focused anyway.

  
“They who have transgressed when young become hard-hearted in their old age. You have on all occasions proved courageous!”

  
The mute reopened the journal and jotted down a message while letting out a few coughs:

  
_I do not understand every word you speak, I am sorry_

 

Wilson recalled his french origins and reevaluated his statement. “What I mean is, we both became well in showing compassion and fairness. I couldn’t tell you how long I dread the thought of coming to terms with my loneliness…” He looked over at Wes who kept his head down onto the pillow, gazing so softly. Maybe he was thinking about how much he enjoyed his comfort. The tranquil feeling of being with one’s love. Shifting over ever so slightly to keep in contact with each other’s arms.

  
He picked up his monocle yo apply onto his face. “Hmm, I believe I have a book to learn the French language. I’ll be back.”

 

Getting off the bed, he walked over to a bookshelf in the other end of the room. He rummaged through the ordered titles. D… E... F, Fasquelle’s Manual of French Conversation. Then he took out a black skinned book and skimmed for the preface as we walked back to the bed.

 

 _The present volume volume has been prepared in answer to the numerous calls for a Class book of French Conversation connected with out series._  
_This Manual contains_  
_First: A short Vocabulary of useful Words._  
_Second: A Collection of Elementary Phrases._  
_Third: Fifty Dialogues on different subjects._ _  
_ _Fourth: A copious Collection of Idiomatical Sentences, many of which are to to be found in dictionaries or grammars. These idioms are arranged in alphabetical order. Many of the expressions are those of modern familiar conversation, so difficult for a stranger to understand and acquire._

 

This sounds fruitful to Wilson in his hopes to impress his learning capabilities to Wes. He gave a hearty chuckle, “Hee hee. Now this would be a good reading, it’s only out of my respect for you to learn _Française_.”

 

Wes scrunched the side of his mouth hearing the crude pronouncing of the word he just uttered. Yet he didn’t denial Wilson’s capabilities, he really did believe he could quickly pick up the words.

 

“Let’s see, vocabulary hmm. Oh! Maladies, Infirmities, et cetera. L’hyyyydropisieee; dropsy. La pulmonieeee; consumption. Une sssaignée; a bleeding. That’s a good word to memorize.”

 

Wes couldn’t handle it. By this rate Wilson would add more vowels in the french language than he would even learn about in one sitting. There had to put a stop to the word butchering. He placed his fingers onto his chin to turn his head to face him. Those hazel eyes focused onto Wes’ own grey ones. He moved his mouth to word out syllables while also move his hands. 

 

“Une? Saignée. Une saignée. Yes yes i’ve just about got it, I told you I would. Une saignée.”

 

Wes rolled his eyes playfully. Pages were flipped through again until there was something more interesting to the doctor’s eyes. Half the portion of the book contained French idioms, sentences for any use in lofe fit for any situation.

 

“Uhh, La tête me tourne. I am _giddy_.”

 

Higgsbury peered over to Weston who repeated the the correct pronunciation with his lips in silence. He noticed how his hands signed the sentence as well. Perhaps it would be double duty to learn _two_ languages at a time. He suddenly realized that Wes must know at least three languages by now, there was something about that fact that charmed Wilson. It was enthralling to watch his fingers move, there was so much to learn about him.

  
Closing the book halfway with his thumb, Wilson decided to change the subject and refrain from the language studying. Removing his monocle he turned to Wes, “Would you mind if tell you more about myself?” There was an approving sign from him. Closing the book, he stretched his legs and lowered down to the bed. 

 

“My full name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, sounds like an english name but don't let that give you thoughts on my predecessors. My mother’s side follows Ashkenazi traditions. Though I _do not_ practice religion myself.”

 

The clock nearby makes a loud tick as its spring barrel settles. It marks the beginning of Wilson’s lengthy chatter to Wes. Earlier, he thought about how few friends he ever has. Not like he ever desires company he could do just fine being alone. The leeches provides the reminder that they will have no one to care for them if anything were to happen with himself. As the minutes go by, a day’s worth of stress fades as his heart eases its hold on emotions. 

 

“I must admit, I’ve had interest days ago to gain your company. Never would I have thought would be thinking of _me_ . It is almost as if…” His voice trailed off as he cut himself off in embarrassment. He tugged at his collar with a flustered grin.

  
“W-Well um, you get the picture, hm?”

  
There was no need for anything out of Wes who felt just as bashful avoiding eye contact, but was just as wanting to express and exchange his two cents of the ordeal to coming to terms on his yearnings to visit the doctor once again. He was growing drowsy but he must keep awake to hear Wilson continue.

  
“I believe I have a fondness for you. I know, that makes me a pansy.”

 

If _that_ was a confession then Wes was a higher deity who had read his mind since the start. During passed sweeping appointments Wilson would keep his eyes away whenever Wes worked, but he remained there. He was either worrying about any soot crumb making contact anywhere besides the chimney or he was letting that gold toned monocle of his eye down his own toned arms pushing up the brush pole higher up the smoke chamber and into the flue. It was just a thought, but cheeky nonetheless.

 

Wilson yawned his mouth agape, stretching his arms over his head then fall back down. One arm just so happened to allow itself to rest over Wes’ shoulder. Like a leech slowly flopping down underwater to rest. Wes put a hand to comb through his unruly hair and exchanged a yawn, then placed his hand back down onto Wilson’s belly. Closeness turned their thoughts into syrup, sweet and slow. Wilson’s free hand felt around for the lever on the oil lamp to subdue its light. The pitch black night enveloped them immediately, leaving only a small amount of crescent moonlight to peep through the window curtain.

 

As they now had no way of seeing each other, it was almost a freeing moment to allow any action next to take place. 

 

“Goodnight, Mr. Weston.”

 

“...”

 

“That kiss fell onto my nose, but if that were intentional, then it is the first instance I’ve heard of a nose kiss.”

 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

The clock on the chimney mantel chimes a bell as it becomes nine in the day. Here and there, laid pairs of dress socks over the flooring. Thin fabric of silk in cool tone colors reflecting the cold morning that fastened to a garter to keep its place on the calf. Fashion is revolved around what can be practical but any added embellishments can be appreciated. Though undoubtedly Wes was not Wilson’s size and stature. Hiking knickers were of the only thing fitting for him to wear without awkward high pant legs. As he fastened the lace of his leather knee length spats, he listened to Wilson present the variable types of collars. Holding open a box of styles which, to Wes, looked exactly the same. The milton, the hamilton, newmarket, brook one, brook two, murrayhill, and so on. The shirt was worn loosely on Wes as he waited for Wilson’s final opinion of collars.

 

“Though I must admit I happen to, ironically, pick is middlesex. Wide size and steep rounded points. Have you had experience attaching these?” 

 

A silly question needs no reply as he already took up the task to affix the collar onto the shirt. Feeling his fingers brush against Wes’ neck gave a tingle down his skin. The final button staked its place against his throat, a thin rectangular tipped bow tie laid flat onto his chest. Now facing Wilson, he allowed him to complete the finishing touch. They continuously met eye contact, and every time doing so made their smiles grow. Getting a mirror Wilson presented it to Wes. The shirt almost clung to his shoulders, his round tipped cuffs were higher than the point of his wrist, but this was the cleanest look he has ever been in. With a grab at Wilson’s hand he gently kissed his knuckles.

 

The physician had the day’s tasks in mind. The most obvious being a more appropriate attire for Mr. Weston, a whole wardrobe’s worth of clothing from midday to midnight. It felt odd for Wes to receive a new outfit, it was typical to go in the same one for an entire week. 

 

Leading into the side of the cottage, there was a doorway to enter the carriage barn where the beefalo resided. Despite the closeness of it there was little of a smell from the animal, the hay mixed with clovers and field grasses were pungent and must’ve been very delicious for a bovine. Wilson walked in front of Wes as if to wall himself between him and the beefalo.

 

“Now be careful, he doesn’t know you so he might break loose. Henry here is a 700 pound noble steed. Those capped horns can still gore you in one swoop! Hooves bigger than a saucer!”

 

Henry mooed in front of their faces, blowing off the smell of grassy cud. He reached over letting its tongue stick out towards Wilson. There wasn’t a hint of ferociousness within the beast. Wilson begged the creature to quit flapping its tongue and put his hand into his front pocket, getting out a sugar cube to pop into Henry’s mouth before looking back to Wes who had an eyebrow raised. 

 

“He’s spoiled… Well Wes you can enter the carriage while I prepare,” Wilson said. “We’ll be visiting the district and spend the day with the tailors.”

 

The interior of the vehicle was pristine, cushioned seats were always a welcoming sight to relax on. In a few minutes the beefalo was fastened to the front and the barn door swung open. The wind gave a chill to Wes’ spine. Dry cold air itched into his throat. Movement of the carriage started to begin. Now Wes has rarely been in one for a very long time, it almost felt nauseating to slightly sway in the mobile box. He was watching the beefalo through the window as it seemed to move on it's own out to the street. 

 

“Woah!” shouted Wilson. The carriage halted as Henry stiffened up from the command. With a rocky motion the  doctor sat up to the stagecoach, taking the reins, and cracking a whip that cut the air with a snap. Steel beefalo shoes clattered onto the cobblestone. The sky is overcast with nothing but a light grey sheet of clouds. It was the canvas backdrop to whatever story to be sketched for the day. 

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ 〰️ ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

 

The junior clerk in the Gorge firm would have earned perhaps less than 100 red marks a year. The city Chairman would be paid 1,000 red marks. The one vital distinction they share is they are both members of the middle class. They wore morning coats, stiff white collars and beaver felt top hats. They worked with numbers and figures. A dentist charged for two fillings – ten silver and six pennies. A full set of false teeth would cost twenty one silver coins. The minimal cost of a funeral is four silver coins

 

Mr. Higgsbury is a well important individual who provides a service none other than determining the life and wellness of health. Outside of his circle of patients, he is of mutual interest to those who provide _him_ with needed services. Wilson comes to the district to receive whatever bulk sizes of chemicals in their vaguely labeled bottles. Though occasionally, he bears entering the social bubbles of others just for the day, before returning back to his cottage to be with him and himself.

 

The streets were busy with noise and traffic. Wagons creaked. Hooves clattered. Beefalo plops. Fortunately the location of the tailor’s shop was on a round corner between an area for dropping off bundles of cloth. Wilson tugged the reins to signal a heed. During the entire ride Wes kept himself relaxed within the carriage, but realizing that he must come and commit to whatever treatment a “tailor” gives causes a bit of unease.

 

The door was opened, but shockingly instead of meeting with Wilson, blue and white fur puffed out from a tight fitted waistcoat. A goat with horns that curved inward held the door open for Wes to step out from. 

 

“He won't bite, Wes. Come along and I'll walk you to the door front”, Wilson said. “Keep up appearances whatever you do.”

 

Walking into the doors, a ring jingled upon their entry. Mannequins lines the window presenting crisp clean suits. The owner of the shop came up to Wilson.

 

“Bah, What can I do for you, gentlemen?” 

 

Being called a gentleman was common speech to Wilson, but as for Wes it was a rare treat to be treated so refined. 

 

Wilson places his monocle down as he began to talk, “My um, _apprentice_ here is in need of clothing, as you can tell.” Wes wasn't sure if that remark was an insult or unintentional. “The gas powered washing machine blew up the laundry.”

 

All of the tailorgoats turned their ears to the direction of Wilson, their marking chalks could've slipped off. “Ba-a-ah, we're busy with a queue of trousers. We could measure for only a suit and hat.”

 

“I intended to come here to get everything made and ordered. I have the money to be here all day.” Wilson placed his thumbs into his gold tone linked belt. “But if you don't have the time for a gentleman physician-”

 

“Baa! We'll be in our way, sir.” Nothing like a bit of bribery and corruption. The talk of money is a driving force. Two blue-green goats came up to Wes holding measuring tape and papers. 

 

“Who will this be ordered to?”, asked the owner.

 

“You can send the bill to me, Dr. Higgsbury on East Quagmire-”

 

“No your apprentice. The suit is for him, no? Full name, please, baah.”

 

Before Wilson could stammer on an answer, Wes scribbled down onto a paper and leaned over to the owner who sat at his desk.

 

“Bah, A.J. Weston, thank you sir-r-r. Now stand back over there.”

 

Wes’ sleeve was pulled to bring him back up standing straight. Arm length was measured, then wrist size. The goats had a broad figure that doubled his own size, and curly beards streaked with white. Air huffed out of their twitching grey noses. Horizontal pupils studied his body just like how the doctor does when examining. They quickly jotted down each measurement without speaking a word to Wes. He felt like a rag doll being moved and wrapped around.

 

While that was getting done, Wilson walked through the premade clothing of socks and long johns. “Six of one, and half a dozen of another.” He picked through clothing as if one orders deli foods at the butcher. “I could use a bit more of that one. Do you make the wool yourself?” A goat tallied up the total number of tailored goods. The sounds of sewer machines clacked was continuous ambiance in the shop. Wilson looked back to Wes who was now looking at a tweed cap. 

 

“Are you sure you wouldn't want to pick up something more like a felted bowler or a top hat?” 

 

Wes looked at him and placed the hat down onto his head and held up his hands as if he were presented how well does he look. His fluffy hair squashed out from under the brim. Wilson allowed him to take whatever he pleases. At a later point the goats offered a three piece suit to Wes that were of his right size, and led him down to the dressing room. In went rugged hiking apparel, out came an extravagantly dressed gentleman. High collar with wing tips that curled out over a diamond tip bow tie. Embroidered waistcoat with a warm paisley pattern. The tails of his coat balanced the weight distribution of his gangly form. He was just stunning to observe. It was grateful that this shop is connected with the hatter and cobbler to proved shoes available as well. Wes tapped his heels and toes to confirm the fit. 

 

Wilson couldn't keep his smile off Wes, it is always pleasant to see him in any form. A hoof tapped onto Wilson's shoulder. A receipt was presented to him, but that wasn't important now. He pointed it away towards all of the bagged and boxed clothing being stuffed into the carriage. 

 

“Now is a proper time to take a step,'' stated Wilson to Wes before turning to the tailors. “Thank you for your work, my apprentice looks wonderfully handsome and respectable…”

 

“Baaah, Anything for your service Dr. Hi-i-iggsbury.” 

 

Tipping their goodbyes, Wilson and Wes climbed back into their carriage. But the inside was so stuffed with bags and boxes that Wes had to ride shotgun next to Wilson who offered the reins of the beefalo to teach him to drive.

 

"It is the duty of a gentleman to know how to ride, to shoot, to fence, to box, to swim, to row and to dance. He should be graceful. If attacked by ruffians, a man should be able to defend himself from their insults.” Wes kept a hold of the leather, there wasn’t a sense of control of Henry as the beefalo didn’t bother to budge. He tugged more, flopped the reins to make it wave like a worm. 

 

Wilson stopped Wes for a moment, “In second thought i'll make our lessons another day.” But before he could take back the reins Wes made a whistle to signal the beefalo to start trotting into the main street. As Wilson directed turns on streets, Wes observed the people of the town clack their shoes and hooves onto the cobblestone. It felt great to be up high on the carriage, feeling the smoggy breeze in his face. 

 

“Stop around this corner here, Weston.” Wilson pointed out a spot to park the beefalo. Nearby there was a large marble building with goats statues lining the front of the granite stairs. The front of the building bore the words POST OFFICE. 

 

“I will be going to deliver an envelope, stay here”, ordered Wilson. “Don’t speak to any strangers, and don’t move.” He kept his monocle shimmering towards him before walking into off to the iron doors of the office.  Wes watched his dainty buckled low heels clack onto the stone, coat billowing as he went. Black and white streaked hair standing out from the aquamarine goats and beige goats.

 

This whole day felt so wondrous and peaceful. Wes twiddled with his gold tone brass cuff-links which included the anagram letter W marked on them. Daydreamed filled his mind, the kindness of the doctor was so melting. He simply needed another soul to connect with, which Wes does. There wasn’t anything in the world that could replace this feeling of belonging. Sure he was quirky but as a medical man he is sure to have his ways of wanting to explore new medicines. Who could ever disrespect him?

 

As his mind continued to wonder, the carriage swayed and there was a plop on the seat beside him. With Wes’ eyes still closed in thought, he craned his neck over to listen to what his companion has to say next for their trip in town. But what he was greeted with, was a total unexpected sight.

 

Sitting next to a basket of small wooden boxes and a side of cut thistle with a grin from ear to ear and a side of pigtails was a familiar friend. “Hello Wes!”

 

The sight of the plain as day street peddler gave a shimmer in his wide eyes. He smiled in return and threw out his arms around the familiar young lady to give a big hug. There wasn’t any clear thoughts in mind besides the jumbled thoughts of excitement. It truly felt like the best day to ever be had. 

 

Pushing away from the hug, the woman eyed up and down Wes’ newly fitted clothing. “I was making my rounds and I couldn’t believe the sight. Wes, you look like a million marks! I wish to imitate you. Did you kill a man? I never knew you had it in you.” The comment made Wes realize he could share all the good new things in his life. He signed his thoughts, but it was so fast that his hands were forcibly settled down by his companion. 

 

“Wait, wait Wes what do you mean live with you?” The dirt on her worn gloves smeared prints onto Wes once pristine white shirt. “Where have you been the past three days, I recall you wanted to visit the doctor but I didn’t think you were that ill. Is your lungs fixed?” The questions shot out in a rapid fire and Wes gave back a few replies before there was a knock on the side door.

 

“Uhh, you there! I believe you’re on the wrong carriage!”, it was Wilson. He had his hands behind his back. His face was like that of a stubborn mule where instead of long ears pointing back it was his hair prongs. “I will be asking you to leave my apprentice alone, and get off at once!”

 

The woman peered down to look at the small man making the commands. She faced back to Wes, “Who does he think he is? You ought to shoo him away from your carriage.” Wes nodded his head and explained to the woman who the man is. Her eyes widened in disbelief, she looked back down, then back to Wes, and back down again to the man below.

 

“Excuse me, miss! I wouldn’t have to shout should I?” The only response he had gotten from above were laughter. He felt he needed to take matters into his own hands. Pry off this street peddler before she attempts to drive away with his possessions, and Wes of course. When he climbs up to the top his hand gotten pulled over, picked up and slumped back down onto the cushioned seat. Wilson dusted off his hands and looked at this woman with a tattered dress, messy hair, and a funny smile with the cleft lip. 

 

“Nice to meet you, doc! I’m Willow. I’ve known Wes for a long time.” Wilson felt anxious on those words, how long would that equal to? It made him feel so ridiculous to think that he could be the sole person in Wes’ life he cared for. But for that other person to be this ill mannered woman? He felt embarrassed and he tried to hide away what hid behind his back.

 

“What’s that? Are those flowers?” Before Willow could spit out more questions, Wilson stuffed them into his doctor’s bag and closed the latches with loud clicks. “Now before you get loose tongued, those aren’t meant for _you_ ”

 

Willow eyed Wes who kept his head down shyly and twiddled with his hands. “Oooh so they were just for you? Granting himself _green_ carnations?” She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes in a provoking manner.

 

To Wilson, this took as a rude poking to his personal life which he did not want to cut into in public again. “They’re not for me I do not need to lavish myself with needless purchases as short lived as flowers,” He brushed his hair back as a few strands fall to his face. “Self-love is the calm, deliberate pursuit of that which we suppose will conduce to our welfare.”

 

Willow sat unimpressed and didn’t seem to pay attention to his last sentence. She tapped onto her lip, then brought in another question. “You’re the doctor?”

 

The answer to that was obvious, but Wilson replied anyway, “...Yes? And you must be the Queen?” There was a pause from Willow, then she burst out laughing. At first Wilson thought it was from the small joke, but then his expression changed when he believed she was laughing at him. 

 

“Yes, what is it?” Wilson exclaimed.

 

“Oh I just couldn’t believe that _you’re_ the man Wes had eyes for ever since he first started working for you on visits.” 

 

“That is— I’m sorry?”

 

“Yes! Ever since he felt like he couldn’t continue the job, he brought up about a doctor who had hair like black birds and a face like a Greek figure. It made me sick.”

 

Those words softened Wilson’s expression, did Wes really say those words? It made his chest feel yearnful to find out that he thought about him for so long. Compliments were always to be appreciated, but when it is from Wes, it felt wholesome and carried a different weight to them. 

 

“I…”, Wilson lost his train of thought. “Are you friends with Wes?”

 

“Well of course? We’ve kept each other’s backs. Without me Wes would have been eaten alive on these cold streets.” She shifted over to move her basket closer to her front.” I hate the cold, would you like to buy a match? For _you_ the price will be hmm 10 red marks!”

 

Ignoring the price of the boxes of matchsticks, Wilson remembered how Wes was a lower class worker. He was not familiar at all with how he could have lived. Did Wes had to sleep outside before?

 

Willow continued to blabber, “I hope you’re as gentlemanly as he says you are. Because if you _ever_ make him shed a single tear I’ll get him away from you.”

 

The statement made Wilson snap his face towards her in attention. Admittedly Wes _has_ cried every day so far, but it was none of his doing. He has been simply been acclimating the peace known as his home which contrasted to whatever lifestyle he had formerly been living in. Seeing Wes cry made his heart weak, so how could he ever bring him to bring that on purpose.

 

“I’ve taken him under my care and we were just settling just fine with our lives. I don’t have any malicious thoughts towards him as I lov—” He stopped his lips into a pucker at that last word. He turned his head as his freckled cheeks gotten warm. 

 

The peddler gave out a chuckle, “Hehhee, you’re his boyfriend!”

 

“ **Ssshhh!** ” Wilson shushed out like a steam blow as his heart was beating out of his chest and ears. That word was new to him. It felt like a foreign word, but it was not wrong. 

 

There wasn’t anything more that Wilson could say to rid of Willow. So he grabbed the reins and let Henry the beefalo to hurriedly go back home. During the ride, Wes’ side was directly in contact with Wilson’s. The conversation from earlier felt like it took hours, and Wes hadn’t let himself intervene with a single sentence, written or signed. Not even the sniffles of a cough. The current silence on the carriage was the moment’s peace before what is to come in the cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to browse my antiques, they can be easily viewed on:  
> https://www.instagram.com/sdragonhead.graves/

**Author's Note:**

> The silly doctor falling for that weiner of a man.


End file.
